Girlfriend
by Saoirse the Irish Colleen
Summary: A Minnesotan figure skater and a Bostonian goalie spend a long season discovering that getting the gold isn't everything. Jimmy Craig/OC
1. Talk Me Into It

**A/N: **I don't pretend to know what went through the minds of the real Miracle team, but Wayne Coffey is the authority on the whole affair so check out his book, _The Boys of Winter_. I'd also like to mention that the 1980 Olympic gold and silver medalists in ladies figure skating were East Germany's Annett Pötzch and the United States' Linda Fratianne. At the time triple jumps were something revolutionary and the only two that the women performed were the triple Salchow and toe loop, and Fratianne was one of the triple jumping prodigies of her time. For more info on that check out Beverly Smith's _Figure Skating: A Celebration_ and Sandra Bezic's _The Passion to Skate_. Oh yeah, I recently got a hold of the 1981 ABC TV movie _Miracle on Ice _starring Karl Malden as Herb Brooks, it was corny, produced on a shoestring, had a teleplay pieced out of clichés, and RIDICULOUSLY overacted (hey, it was the 80s people) but still fun and drew a little inspiration for this li'l ditty.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but the OCs.

**Girlfriend**

** By Saoirse the Irish Colleen**

_Chapter I: Talk Me Into It_

Summer, 1978

She liked it when he pulled her wrists over her head. She liked him. But she was smart and kept her mouth shut. God forbid he _ever_ shut up. He said she had a nice body, _for a kid_. It was a punch to her 18-year-old pride; then again he didn't get the concept of room parties. She was 16 when she gave it up to a 30-year-old Russian with a dacha that made his New England colonial look sick. But his arrogance paid off with a 16-0-0 season. His championship ring winked at her in the sunlight.

She wasn't afraid. Not of him, or his town. And she brushed off her agent- their agent- when he advised her against wearing a North Stars T-shirt for an on-camera interview framed by the skyline of the city that bled black and gold. She wasn't doing this to prove anything.

So what the fuck was she doing this for?

# #

Fall, 1977

The night before the pre-game a reception was held at the Sheraton. Brooks loved free publicity (even if it was on enemy territory) bringing the staff and team (fidgety in their only suits) fronting coolness with a touch of elegance which was why he _insisted_ that the U foot the bill for Patti's plane ticket. Her former profession, nursing, instilled a tolerance for the sport that only a case of Chardonnay (on the spot) could provide. She made a beeline for the open bar to mingle with the other hockey wives. Callie being a Boston resident for the last three years tagged along accompanied by her agent quickly detaching himself checking on his other investments. She was 17 and being Janny's baby sister- who was more popular than the lot- found herself many a photographer's favorite target. Her dress was green with a fairy hem held up on her lithe, white body by straps. Jimmy wondered if she was making fun of his shamrocks.

Callie saw the black-haired goalie maneuver his way to get his draft glass refilled and smiled. _Too complicated to be fun_, she thought. An hour later she joined Patti poolside on a settee behind some tall plants, it was an Indian summer worsened by the booze. The older woman swished a glass filled to the brim with red and Callie began to get giddy from the double rum and cokes. Rough Bostonian accents stifled their gossiping.

"Ya didn't get up once tonight, Jimbo." O.C. said, the psycho captain on D worshiped by the puck fucks and Parker alike.

"More of the same and less interesting."

"Janaszak's sister was lookin' mighty tasty." O.C. baited him.

"I could hardly stand to watch." Jimmy snorted. Callie slapped a hand over her mouth killing a laugh.

"We never spoke, and he's insulting _me_." She hissed to Patti. She pulled down a frond and saw the pair of them sharing a silver flask.

"A real piece of work. You see _The Hockey News_?" The striped tie wagged like a tongue from O.C.'s jacket pocket.

"The pinup girl to make every cowtipper's dick stand." Jim screwed the cap back on and tossed it to O.C. "Crowned prince and princess of the Midwest enjoying a day out complete with hot fudge sundaes and bobbysoxing it up to _Rock Around the Clock_." It was a PR tactic trying to revamp the Barbara Ann Scott/Gordie Howe sports section romance to drum up ticket sales for the current national champs from the University of Wisconsin and the Tom Collins tour. Callie spent the day in Milwaukee doing her rounds with Badger Bob's son Mark Johnson until they went back to her hotel so she could collect her fee. It was nice, but Wisconsinites and Minnesotans were interchangeable.

That didn't mean Callie _wasn't_ climbing the walls in Boston.

Patti scrunched her nose silently advising Callie to leave it be and they plunged back into the ballroom. Callie helped herself to some punch and checked out the remaining talent. Rizzo was the kind of self-effacing nice guy who'd smile before busting your knees open. Then there was Buzzy, her old teammate from the Innsbruck Games. It was too easy to fall in love with him. But he was Gayle's property and the Babbitt Rabbit would be in his 40's by the time he grew up. Baker who'd been tapped for captain recently was blonde and lovely. And had the attention span of a gnat fucking. Silky was more adept at flirting because he'd have passed out before she could kick off her shoes. And finally there was rich bitch Robbie. He was a finance major whose jeans were $60 bucks a pop. Then she saw him throwing away some dental floss exiting the men's room.

Callie scanned the table hoping to find a bigger glass. She was so busy mentally whining about a cold bed she failed to see someone had beaten her to the punch ladle.

"Oh sorry!" She smiled genuinely stunned. "My _faux pas_. Go ahead." Gauging Jimmy's lack of reaction he was undoubtedly congratulating himself on seeing through her flattery. Callie refused wait for him so she dipped her glass into the syrupy spiked red drink. As his jacket and shirt cuff shifted she noticed the smart-looking digital watch. It was silver and looked fairly new.

"What?" That came off a bit more abrasive than he usually was.

"Your digital watch." Callie pointed out. "I'd never seen one- up close, I mean!" She clarified hoping to deflect the hick barb on the tip of his tongue. "It's really cool." Jimmy demurred.

"Yeah," he twisted his wrist, "birthday gift from my brother Dan. Thanks."

"Wow." Callie raised her glass. "Sounds like a guy with taste. I'd like to meet him." She traipsed off knowing he'd be hot on her heels.

_Too easy._

The band played a reel with a punk rock backbeat. Callie ensconced herself against a gold mirrored pillar to watch. The steps and formations were intricate, a little too much for her Vaganova ballet trained feet. Truth be told she didn't want to look like an idiot. Her mother was Ukrainian and her father was Polish. She had as much business in a St. Patrick's Day parade as the Pope getting Bar Mitzvahed. She played it cool keeping her eyes on the dance floor as Jimmy casually sidled up to her. He wisely dumped the punch for a Molson's.

"Not dancing tonight, Mr. Craig? I thought this type of thing was right up your alley."

"Didn't see you accepting any offers Miz Janaszak." Jimmy retorted. Callie didn't do herself any favors by refusing the few guys that did ask her to dance. It was a laugh and a half watching his roommate Billy LeBlond, O.C.'s Harvard buddy Jack Hughes, and that ape Verchota strike out with her. No finesse, then again their reps preceded them. Back in the day when Jimmy wasn't making Coach Linehan's life easy he also was a catcher for Oliver Ames High's varsity baseball team. Now it was hardly cannon fire, but his hand-eye coordination was topnotch and his centering was heaven-sent. After sizing up the other team's pitcher, everything else was like reading the funnies.

_YOU'RE OUT!_

Chicks worked similarly. His last steady date was Linda, an alpha bitch puckbunny who was clawing her way up to NHL wife, Linda latched onto the players with prospective contracts that included fat bonuses. Now the Flames had been courting him, going down 72nd in the draft on its fourth round with only two other Americans on the roster, ironically Mark Johnson six spots ahead. Jimmy's manager Bob Murray was trying to negotiate a nice number to get him interested in signing on. But that meant dropping out (name one pro hockey player who didn't) and dashing his mother's Lake Placid dream. Jimmy could give a shit about school, he wasn't dumb, but he wasn't stellar. He honestly wished he could be shameless like O.C. and openly nap during a lecture. Athletes who got full rides didn't bother with class, but suffering the wrath of his sister Maureen just didn't make hooky worth it.

Unfortunately the Craig clan was falling on hard times. After Vietnam the bottom dropped out of the economy and that meant layoffs. His father was set to get bumped from his position as Dean Junior College's food service manager. _Manager! _He had fucking seniority! The house was paid for and with six older kids on their own lightened the load, but insurance was a bitch. His mother's cancer treatment nearly bled them dry, but his father's paycheck (with donations from dear friends) made it seem like Fort Knox was in their back yard. Don Craig's pension and social security amounted to shit. The last time Jimmy emptied out the ashtrays he punched a hole into the wall- with his catching hand. Don hadn't lit up in front of Jimmy since.

The pressure to sign would only build, and while his strut was well-deserved there were plenty of guys between the pipes who could make the Olympic cut. There were other variables as well; who the coach was, his style, and whether it would be just a half-assed attempt at respectability considering the USA's 5th place finish at Innsbruck.

Jimmy took a powerful swig of his brewsky determined to keep his outlook in the short-term: the 1978 Frozen Four tourney, taking back the Beanpot trophy from Harvard (then shoving it up BC's ass), tomorrow's grandiose ass-kicking of the Golden Gophers, and most importantly tonight's naked performance of Callie Janaszak in his dorm.

"He's married y'know."

"I'm sorry?" Callie said.

"My older brother."

"Really," Callie daintily sipped her punch, "should that stop anybody these days?" She said indifferently. Jimmy gawked like a dead fish momentarily before she burst out laughing. He fell for that hook, line, and sinker mentally beating his head in with the blade of his stick.

_Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!_

"Give it up Craig, I had you there." His electric blue eyes glittered; he was being forced into extending the black hatred of regionalism to the china doll posing before him.

"Watch your step Janaszak," he warned. "What you do might end up biting you in the ass."

"I wouldn't talk." Callie hooted. "You know Joe Concannon says you're one of his _favorite_ interview subjects. And I'm not surprised what with all the shit you talk ending up in _The Globe_. That alone is enough to put his kids through Boston University!"

"Well then I guess we're pretty lucky to have the same manager so we can keep tabs on each other." It was a pretty good rejoinder that was tragically flawed because of one minute detail.

"Aww Jim," Callie purred standing on the toes of her ankle strap pumps. "You forget, I'm Minnesotan." She smoothed her hands up and down his toned chest. "And we've got subtlety down to an art." She laid her head dreamily onto his chest.

"You're such a bitch, and I am impressed with how you've managed to fool everybody- but me." His large, calloused hand slid down over her ass and pinched it. Callie stood 5'5" and Jimmy was 6'2", her head fit nicely under his chin giving the impression that they were dancing which deterred suspicion.

"And assholes like you will be forever cock-blocked. But according to Joey Mullen, you were the all-time scorer in pity pussy last year."

"You're taking calls from him now?" Jimmy said with mock incredulity.

"Look, Jim, we can do this little two-step all night." She broke away from him putting her fist on her hip mimicking her coach on the morning she left her at the rink making her decide whether she wanted to be a skater or a jumper. "Now I know what I want." A beat. "What do _you_ want?" Jimmy knew if he was anything, he was excruciatingly forthright. Her red lipstick had that gloss that made her mouth look wet…

Jack O'Callahan watched that cake eater Rob McClanahan hold court with sponsors regaling them with tales from Poly-Sci 401. O.C. signaled the barkeep to keep the tequila coming, but instead of numbing him out the Cuervo enhanced the ′76 playoffs play-by-play of Mac boarding him into IMAX…

Callie's wavy bright auburn hair bled through Jimmy's long fingers, draping over his arms. Her lipstick was completely licked off. She loosed the knot on his big ugly red tie. A button popped open and she glimpsed his dense black hair. He smelled like mint oil and fleece, an Irish winter. Neither heard the crash, but Callie screamed feeling the floor leave her feet after Jimmy pulled them down. Pulverized glass was everywhere; a chair was on its side in the middle of the dance floor. Jimmy scrambled to where O.C. and Mac were wrestling. Callie honestly didn't think she'd see him again after that disastrous night.

**TBC**

**A/N: **A little movie trivia: Digital watches made their informal debut in ′70 as a novelty but didn't get released into mass markets until ′75. If anybody noticed Eddie wore a silver digital watch of that era that's visible in the medal ceremony and that brief "scene" where he's meeting with Russell. On Jim Craig's revamped website he links his recently launched Facebook page, and in his photos section are two black and white shots of him on the podium wearing that same silver digital watch.


	2. I'm a Real Man

**A/N: **It's a shame nobody novelized _Slap Shot_. They could've really expanded on the Charlestown Chiefs mythos (not to mention the exploits of Reggie Dunlop and the Hanson Brothers). You know what's a bigger fucking shame? They're remaking _Slap Shot_. Oh and thanks for the reviews- the rating, however, WILL go up in the future. And don't kill me because I'm not proficient in NHL-speak. I love hockey, but the technobabble is somewhat threatening and I've done my homework. Oh yeah, if you're wondering about the misspelling, it's my half-ass attempt at the infamous _Baahstonian_ accent.

_Chapter II: I'm a Real Man_

Bloodbath 2.0.

Callie looked at Stevie and thanked God Doc got him nice and doped up, or he'd be bugging the shit out of everybody about his face. Their flight back to Minneapolis was delayed, so she agreed to sit with them for another half hour. The coffee shop at Logan International wasn't bad, the guys chowed down on apple pie a la mode and chili Fritos while she nibbled on a raspberry Danish and sipped chamomile tea. Patti and Herb sat one seat apart; she wouldn't be surprised if he would be bunking on the couch for a spell. Gary Smith, the Gophers trainer, talked a mile a minute on the payphone. Doc was dozing. Callie scanned today's _Boston Globe_, and yes, the Gophers and Terriers got a mention. And she wouldn't be shocked if Concannon was pulling an all-nighter to make the deadline for tomorrow's edition.

# #

Boston Gardens was neutral territory but it was chosen primarily because it seated 17,000 over Walter Brown's modest 3,806 seats. Boston University and the University of Minnesota had one of the fiercest rivalries in college hockey, and despite the Boston PD having been dispatched for riot control at the Sheraton last night the sponsors were already popping the champagne because the game sold out within four hours.

Callie lived with her coach Deidre Kessler and her husband Aaron. Their two kids, 15-year-old Holly and Jeff, Callie's classmate all attended St. Catherine's High School. Having been in Minnesotan public schools all her life, simply saying she hated Catholic school was tame. The nuns were a bunch of jealous, old virgin bitches who were put on earth to make everybody's life miserable. Thankfully Callie didn't have to put up with them too much considering her competitive schedule.

Jeff was a star forward on St. Cathy's hockey team, the Daredevils, and was scouted by several premier D-I schools: Harvard, Boston College, and Dartmouth. But he was firmly holding out for a Terriers jersey. Aaron played for the Terriers in his BU days, but his pro dreams were crushed after scoring a goal on the University of Maine one of their cementheads cheap shot him into the net impaling him on the razor-sharp metal bracket. His ACL was severed and he was in PT for over a year, so he became an accountant.

The riot made the news and was lampooned on the popular Boston morning show _Good Day!_

"You don't have to go to school," Deidre said to Callie betting that a media frenzy was lying in wait.

_It's just what the shamrock sucker would love for me to do._

"Ma, I gotta go pick up Mia." Jeff referred to his girlfriend; a cute, vapid brunette who thought team sports were cuddly because of the mascots.

"Don't worry so much Deidre." Callie said following Jeff to his car.

"Bye Mom!" Holly kissed Deidre before prancing out the door. And just as Jeff parked his Army auctioned jeep the scum swarmed them. Callie didn't even bother with the 'no comment' bullshit, she just ran as fast as her Mary Janes would let her. She was unpopular as it was (St. Cathy's occupied the Terriers camp) and she had the place of honor atop Homecoming Queen Crystal Woolsey's shit list. This really didn't help things out. Callie's only other friend in the state of Massachusetts was a fellow pariah by the name of Jessie Rallis. Jessie was a natural blonde who dyed it black because she sincerely believed Lily Munster was her biological mother. And while St. Cathy's never made good on their suspension threats because of her black fishnets, lipstick, and boots, she was nearly kicked out because she wore a crucifix upside down once. Her only saving grace was that her lawyer parents were major local contributors to the Democratic Party… and her older brother Dean played right wing for the Terriers.

Callie left early that night taking a cab to Boston Gardens. She waited at the side entrance for the Gophers' coach bus and was greeted with many hugs. Robbie smiled handsomely regardless of a split lip, and Callie linked an arm with him and the other with Steve. The Gophers merrily made their way into the still arena but slowed to a halt coming face to face with the Terriers. The cold oxygen was supercharged with the threat of everything in scarlet and white killing anything in maroon and gold.

"Hey O'Callahan!" Robbie said brightly.

Jack stepped forward whipping off his aviator sunglasses revealing a nasty shiner. "McClanahan, you suck cock." His calm tone was betrayed by the maniacal gleam in his dark blue eyes.

"All I can get." Herb saluted Jack Parker and Callie arched a brow at Jimmy hip swaying away. Two hours later Callie was situated behind Jimmy's net to relish the Bostonian chatterbox squirms when her boys scored on him. And maybe she might be nice and let him score on her later. There were plenty of angry stares and wicked words for her donning her honorary U of M varsity jacket. But things were about to get just plain ugly when the announcer opened the game. The Gophers emerged from the tunnel for the warm-up first in their away colors, maroon and gold on white. A thunderous tidal wave of revulsion looked to overtake the visiting team, but Callie stood tall screaming her support.

"C'MON STEVEIE, LET'S BRING IT UP! LET 'EM HAVE IT STROBEL! FUCK 'EM 'TILL IT HURTS PHILLY!"

"Siddown, ya Minnesotan whore!" A fat guy in a pork pie hat yelled three rows up.

Callie spun. "Fuck you _Masshole!_" But before she could sit down Callie was boarded when the crowds exploded in orgasmic adulation as the Terriers made their grand entrance in their home colors of white on scarlet circling the ice. Callie struggled to get the coed puck fucks to quit jumping all over her when something violently crashed the glass, making her scream. She turned seeing Jimmy pull away with his signature smirk, hoisting his stick (that he slammed the glass with) over his head and lowering it behind his neck to stretch his arms. She just noticed that he sported a bit of stubble.

She looked away fighting to keep the color from her face. Callie steeled herself and balled her hands at her sides. "FUCK YOU!"

"I know," Jimmy mouthed.

The organist segued from W.C. Handy's _St. Louis Blues_ to _Charge _as the teams skated to their respective blue lines.

"On defense for the Gophers, #5 Mike Ramsey!"

"RAMSEY YOU STINK!"

"Right wing for the Gophers, #11 Steve Christoff!"

"I HATE YOU CHRISTOFF!"

"Center for the Gophers, #9 Neal Broten!"

"BROTSY PUSSY!"

Recordings of the American and Canadian national anthems played then the starters took their positions around the center face-off spot.

"Hey Baker!" O.C. shouted to his Minnesotan counterpart. "Tell Janaszak his kid sister's really leaving her mark on Boston."

"I wonder what it could be." Bakes replied ready for the punchline. Jack exchanged smiles with Silky.

"Lipstick rings around our dicks!" The Terriers guffawed and Schneider looked ready to carve them up. They bent low, keeping their eyes on each other.

"WHO WANTS IT BOYS?" Herb yelled and the puck was dropped.

It was a scramble but the Gophers got the puck into their zone and dominated things quickly. Ten minutes into the first period and board was scoreless. Callie was on pins and needles watching scarlet and white bodies storm Steve's crease, but his skate saves were the most impressive considering the technique was thought to be the least effective. His short, powerful legs were honed to perfection by high school football and soccer (he lettered ten times) defending his net with the speed of a pinball.

But while Stevie was the marathon runner, Jimmy was the acrobat. He sprawled, kicked, and gloved like no fucking tomorrow. She hated to admit it, but the bastard was graceful. Not once tonight has she seen the puck break off his glove. His strength was having superb anticipation for the release.

'Electric' Eric Strobel blitzed up the lane with his stick on the puck crossing into the Terriers' zone when Dean Rallis and Mike Eruzione closed in from the front of Jimmy's net.

"PICK IT UP!"

"OFFSIDES!"

"SCREEN! SCREEN!"

"**GO FOR THE PASS!"** Herb bellowed.

"I'M OPEN!"

"CENTER! CENTER!"

Like a phantom Buzz Schneider slingshot out of the corner, Eric delayed a half a second, tipped it off to Buzz making a wide arc round the shocked forwards, and scooped it in shooting low on stick side.

The only thing louder than Callie's whooping was the buzzer.

"SON OF A BITCH!" Jimmy screamed behind his white mask.

"Scoring for the Gophers, #25 Buzz Schneider. On an assist from #19, Eric Strobel."

The Gophers huddled swiping their gloves on Buzzy's gold helmet and ass-slapped Strobel. 1-0 with 8:25 left on the clock, and it would be just plain stupid of Callie to relax. Jimmy rapped his stick on the ice.

"LET'S GO MOTHERFUCKAHS! HELP ME OUT HEAH!"

"You need all the help you could get." Callie sneered. She was too keyed up to sit, Jimmy had extraordinary rebound capabilities. Neutral zone face-off spot, as the players assembled Callie caught sight of Jessie sitting center ice looking bored as ever. She waved to Callie with her soda cup spiked with brandy. Callie just shrugged. A ref's whistle screeched, she didn't see it but there was a violation. The culprits? Could be anybody, she knew these assholes _too_ well. Shit was taking thirty seconds too long to get sorted for Callie's liking, but in that little window of time Jimmy flipped up his mask and took a swig from the water bottle nestled on his net. His thin lips, a bright cherry from the cold and exertion, puckered around the spout. The whole time he rehydrated Jimmy brazenly stared at Callie. She tuned out the taunts and curses from the jealous Boston girls and stared right back. Her glare burned a hole through the big shamrock on the back of his equally big head.

It was wishful thinking, but Jimmy hoped the little mind fuck he was doing to Callie would get telepathically telegraphed to her brother. Like every hockey player, he meticulously studied the game. Since he was a kid he filled notebooks with rink diagrams and plays, he spent countless hours watching films, and he studied his opponents whenever the opportunity provided itself. Before all hell broke loose last night Jimmy intended to spend the evening watching Steve Janaszak. He was a tiny shit at 5'8" and 160 pounds with a Fu Manchu moustache and a smile you couldn't punch off. But Jimmy knew not to fuck with him and he learned the hard way from ′76. His lackadaisical stance hid a ruthlessness that made him wonder if he had a chip on his shoulder because they thought his size would hinder him.

For Jimmy it was the opposite. Being tall ran in the family. His father was a big man; Dan was 6'5", and his younger brothers were shooting up like weeds. Jimmy had his last growth spurt during his senior year at Oliver Ames, eight inches and it took some getting used to. He'd ball himself up into the fetal position under the covers because of growing pains. He hit his head a few times on the archway over the stairs because it was a bit low. In hockey it pays to be bigger, and at 6'2" and 190 pounds he didn't leave much net for his enemies to shoot at.

Janaszak seemed to spit on him in that polite, Midwestern way of his. Or did he just sic his sister on him?

Callie cursed out the organist 'revving up' the crowd. When were they going to phase out the old biddies and get a DJ? She never knew what _Supercali-fuckalistic-expiala-crappish _had to do with hockey! Seriously, were these so-called purists so devoted to tradition that they were selectively deaf to the ear-splitting rock music that made the locker rooms tremor? If the stick boy ever fucked with the Gophers' AC/DC and Thin Lizzy mix tapes and _Lady of Spain _came out of that boom box, he'd have 20 guys giving him the good news. The ref was still barking reprimands and waving his arms like a traffic cop, all going over the heads of cocksure twenty-somethings, young, dumb, and full of come. The whistle blew and everybody assumed the position.

The puck flew down the ice and it was a bull run. Billy LeBlond hooked it on his stick and passed it to Dave Silk, fluidly dodging hips and elbows going for Steve's net. He launched the puck only to watch it get stopped by Steve's butterfly. There was an implosion of pain in Silky's midsection when Phil Verchota sent him his shoulder special delivery flipping him over. #27 Phil Verchota was Herb Brooks' checking god. He was on a dual scholarship for both football and hockey, and at 6'3" and 200 pounds he made himself known as the Gophers' new enforcer since the departure of Dave Hanson. The only reason why Brooks put up with any of Verchota's or Hanson's on ice antics was the fact that they could flat-out play hockey. You can't have a brain fart and _not_ have a place for the tough guy. The fundamental difference between the Duluth and Wisconsin natives was the fact that Hanson had little respect for the 'pussy-ass fancy dance' hockey Brooks peddled. Hanson carved out a bloody niche in the WHA/NHL dump-and-chase style. But now that he and two of the Carlson Brothers had gone Hollywood, there was little chance of whatever he did was going to affect the team.

Jimmy, by the looks of it, was on the warpath.

"WHAT'D YOU TAKE RETAHD PILLS? GET THE PUCK!" Craig was a territorial bastard, and he turned quite vicious if anybody skated too close to his neighborhood. He scythed his stick like the grim reaper cutting Gophers off at the knees in front of his net. "OUTTA MY FACE COCKSUCKAH!" He shoved and belted players like it was his God-given right. But it wasn't any sweat off Verchota's back. Callie saw Verchota lining up the shot and everyone in that arena knew what was coming next.

"**NOW!" **Parker roared.

Verchota wound up his stick higher than his shoulder with all of his weight bending it like a spring.

"**U-U-U-U-UP YOURS-S-S-S-S-S-S!"**

He brought the stick down shifting his weight and rolling his wrists at the last possible second releasing the energy as the blade slammed the puck letting it fly. Time slowed as every head in the rink followed the slap shot's arc. Callie easily read the MADE IN CANADA labeling on the spinning disc. Jimmy jumped throwing his glove up as high as humanly possible.

"**FU-U-U-U-UCK YOU-U-U-U-U-U-U!"** He snared the puck right in the air and collapsed backwards. Callie screamed, her knees buckled and she slumped to the concrete. Pandemonium ensued and ecstatic Terriers on the ice and from the bench dog piled their goalie. Jimmy Craig was a rock star. And Callie creamed her jeans. Parker lit up a cigar and nodded at Brooks who was a new shade of purple. Dazed, the Gophers watched the Bostonian squad celebrate- and they were still down by a goal! Shakily Callie got to her feet, her panties plastered to her wet crotch made her itchy. The Terriers smashed Jimmy's longish, wet black hair with their gloves still congratulating him. All he could do was bat the puck away. He checked the clock, 4:00 minutes.

_Murphy's Law: Anything that can go wrong will go wrong._

_This is gonna be the longest four minutes of my life! _Callie thought. And she always believed it would be her Olympic long program. But it was no good. Jimmy was no Ken Dryden, but you had to be a moron not to see that his team was being _way_ _too_ dependent on him. Callie's head was bobbing in the haze when she heard the buzzer, the Terriers scored and they were tied 1-1 with 1:10 on the clock.

"Scoring for the Terriers, #21 Mike Eruzione! Assist #17 Jack O'Callahan!"

It was tough being optimistic, but the first period was coming to a close, and the Gophers still had a lot of ground to cover. Herb will no doubt be letting them have it. Callie wondered if he was on blood pressure medication, and if he wasn't maybe he should start.

Defensive zone face-off spot and Callie had a bad feeling. The cheap shots flew faster than a stripper's gloves and g-string. Broten slashed Rallis coming up along side and deflected the puck to another Gopher. Jimmy retaliated bashing Bill Baker whizzing by in the face with the top of his stick. Baker splayed to the ice, his nose a bloody mess. The ref's whistle stopped the game, the Gophers raged and the Terriers rejoiced banging the boards with gloves and sticks. Jimmy flipped up his mask, smirking at the downed, muzzy Baker.

"YAH BEAUTIFUL JIMMY! BEAUTIFUL!" Jack Parker cried.

"SHOWER OF BASTARDS! GO FUCK YOURSELF!" Brooks attacked the short glass pane between him and the Terriers. A shoving match on the ice broke out and the other two officials fought to contain it. Baker wildly flailed struggling to his feet and went at Jimmy; the two waltzed a bit with latched to each other's jersey. The ref wedged himself between them and ended up taking the majority of the blows. Callie leapt onto the ledge clawing the glass. She screamed nonsensically, the two hockey players were separated but continued to bark in each other's faces. The audience wasn't having any of it either, all whistles and jeers, hungry for blood. In the end Baker left the ice trying to staunch his gushing nose with his glove, Doc ready to receive him.

"THIS IS ASS!" He slammed the boards with his stick. The Terriers got penalized and the ref sent another skater into the bin to serve for their goalie. It just wasn't enough!

"**BURN IN HELL CRAIG, YOU STUCK IRISH PIG!" **Jimmy flinched andturned slowly facing the girl who screamed the slur. Callie was gorgeous; hair a wreck, grey eyes blazing, and her face flushed.

_Yeah, I went there, you New Englander fuck!_

The Gophers pounded their sticks on the ice in cadence, slamming out a secret code. Jimmy swiped his mask down and got back to work. What happened next would be the subject of many debates that would go down in the Terriers-Gophers rivalry history books.

Somewhere between Mac's cross-check and O.C. high-sticking, the pair flew down amid a flurry of bombs. The crowds exploded and chaos was unleashed. Sticks and gloves littered the ice, Parker and Brooks ordered out the troops, and the benches cleared.

"YA-A-A-A-A-A-AH-H-H-H-H!" Buzzy became airborne and crash landed on Silk, splattering on the ice in a ridiculous spread-eagle. Jimmy took on Verchota trying to get him into a headlock. Patti was screaming running over the seats as her husband and Parker tried to strangle each other by their neckties. Gary Smith got in on the fun when he knocked out a Terrier who spit on him- and it was good bet that it was the same guy from ′76. Rizzo knew he was going to be guilt tripping in the morning but pile drove the first Minnesotan he saw into the boards. O.C. wasn't into that pussy squaring off with one guy bullshit, took his stick and flew around the rink whaling on everybody. An air siren went off and it rained popcorn, soda, and beer cups.

It took an hour for a semblance of order to be restored, and the Boston PD was called in yet again. At the end of that very long night, the game was tied at 3-3 and no overtime was permitted.

# #

The next morning (after popping a couple of vicodin) Jimmy left the dorm to get some coffee knowing there'd be none in the communal kitchen. It was his turn to pick up the donuts anyway. His groaning teammates loitered the lounge. It hurt like a bitch to lie down, but sitting and standing weren't much better either. Rizzo pulled a frosted and a cream from the box and weakly smiled at Jimmy with his battered face. Jimmy unfolded _The Globe _and splashed across the front page was a photo of the fucked up Gophers after the game brandishing the Minnesota state flag under the scoreboard. An inset photo was of the Terriers looking pissed on the bench. The headline read: 'WE'RE A HAPPY FAMILY'. Standing at the end of the line was Callie feebly flashing the victory sign beside her brother. Jimmy sipped his coffee.

**TBC**


	3. Little Girl Lies, Part One

**A/N: **I'd like to note that the Super Eight is a Massachusetts interscholastic high school hockey tourney that began in 1991. Also Junior Worlds didn't begin until 1978 and the ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating didn't combine until 1995 and were held as separate amateur competitions: Skate America (1979); Skate Canada International (1973); Trophée Lalique (France 1987); NHK Trophy (Japan 1979); Nations Cup (Germany 1990, but discontinued in ′04) and the list excludes Cup of Russia and Cup of China as they began in ′96 and ′03 (respectively) because this story is set during the height of the Cold War. These chapters also take from _My Sergei: A Love Story _by 1988 and ′94 Olympic pairs champion Yekaterina Gordeyeva.

"We may be young but we're immature." - (the real) Mike Eruzione, _Sports Illustrated _March 3, 1980.

_Chapter III: Little Girl Lies, Part One_

Callie was sitting in an uncomfortable chair with pancake makeup melting under the hot stage lights interviewed by Gloria Plastic Face. Bob had her up at 4 a.m. for a _Good Day! _interview. It was remarkable at how Plastic Face seemed to be doing most of the talking. Her capped teeth reflected so much light it was blinding. Callie didn't even know why she was angsting so much; she got to skip school because she was scheduled to tape a satellite interview for Minneapolis' KTSP's _Sports Wrap_ after this. Hopefully Deidre would be merciful and let her catch a nap in the car before dance class. This was all part of Bob's grand PR scheme for a world championship build-up. Before this he was an athlete's workaday legal shithead, but now he was a certified fascistic shithead. Callie was getting nauseated from lack of proper sleep and watching Plastic Face's Farah Fawcett flip bounce around.

_I hate my life._

In his dorm Jimmy watched Callie on Billy's black-and-white portable struggling to stay awake.

_Can't you ever say no?_

An inset photo appeared on the screen of a 12-year-old Callie dressed in an exact replica of Peggy Fleming's Olympic long program costume… 

# #

Callie Janaszak and East Germany's Ava Liebert had been rivals since their junior days. They both made their respective Olympic teams in 1976 at 15. Ava finished just off the podium in fourth, while Callie delivered a flawless performance finishing eighth with all three American ladies single skaters in the top eight; Dorothy Hamill was crowned Olympic champion and Wendy Burge was in sixth place.

At the start of the 1977 season everyone fixed Ava Liebert for the new world champion. She was coached by the legendary Frau Jutta Müller, so that gave the prediction some credence. Her technique was tight, she performed the triple toe loop and Salchow with ease, and she was a phenom in the compulsory figures. A darling of the East German Skating Federation she lived a life of luxury in her Berlin sports school few of the small Communist nation's citizens knew.

But the tempestuous blonde was always looking over her shoulder for the redheaded Callie Janaszak.

Callie was born in White Bear Lake, Minnesota to Betty and Larry Janaszak when their son Steve was three. Their neighborhood was a fairly typical Ramsey County middle-class suburb ten miles outside of Minneapolis-St. Paul. There was swimming and fishing in the summer, and skating and hockey on those same lakes during the frigid winter. Steve began his hockey career at five playing shinny hockey with his friends on the block.

One of Callie's earliest memories was watching her brother sitting in the snow, stick across his lap getting a numb ass looking at the game. He was a fifth line center on a three line team. The nets were thick chunks of frozen snow set up at either end of the street, and the goalie gear was pretty shitty. More than likely they were donations from older brothers who outgrew them, or weren't viable anymore. One of the goalies was Pee Wee Peliquin, he wasn't particularly talented, but you would never think his biggest weakness would be bubble gum. He loved to blow bubbles with his mask down, unfortunately it would end up sticking to his face and freezing there.

"Fuck this!" Eight-year-old Pee Wee threw down his mask. He stomped off never to return. In a bind the coach looked for any boy who wasn't busy.

"Hey Janny! Get over here!"

"Yeah coach?"

"Wanna play?"

"Hell yeah coach!"

The coach shoved the mask in Steve's little chest. "Get in there!" And the rest was history.

Meanwhile at the Ramsey Ice Arena, five-year-old Callie was having her first formal skating lesson. Her only problem was that her boots were too big. She was the smallest girl in the club, and Betty couldn't let her daughter make her debut in Stevie's raggedy baby skates. They didn't even have regulation figure skate blades! Unfortunately the smallest beautiful white skates the pro shop had were one size too big. But the late Pawlina Janaszak had an ingenious solution. Her paternal grandmother was a bridal shop seamstress, so she took several pairs of Callie's thickest socks, layered them within each other, and sewed them to the inside of the boots. It saved the family money in the long run and didn't affect Callie in the least.

Figure skating coaches can scout prospects from the schools. They know who's got the talent and drive to make it to the top of the podium, and who will fall through the cracks. Mitch Franck, a former national champion and Minnesota native, recognized Callie's natural jumping ability. She had impressive speed and good edging. But her Achilles heel was her impatience with compulsory figures. He knew that wouldn't change with time or maturity. In fact, he secretly encouraged that. Franck was an iconoclast, triple jumps were now mandatory in the men's competition (and throw jumps in pairs thanks to Irina Rodnina), why wasn't it enforced in ladies? Little girls on the ice today didn't want to be Sonja Henie (not that the Norwegian three-time Olympic champion didn't get respect), but looked up to the dynamism of Peggy Fleming and Canada's Petra Burka.

He didn't make many friends, and knew that his stance wouldn't make him head coach, so he exclusively coached boys and pairs. Until Betty Janaszak with her pissy-looking daughter showed up one day in his office unannounced. Franck squat down making himself eye level with Callie.

"So what can I do you for, kiddo?" Her little mouth was tight and she looked ready to swing her fists.

"I wanna do triples. They won't teach me." Betty was nervous; she really didn't want Callie to quit over something so trivial.

"I'm sorry," Betty apologized. "It's just… she idolizes her big brother who plays hockey. I think this might be her little way of showing him up." Backward was a harsh term, and Franck thought Betty was a lot like his own mother. To them, the earth was flat outside of Minnesota.

"Mrs. Janaszak, I'd like to show you something." His wife Debbie argued why he wanted to keep it in his office, but she wasn't an athlete, she was a cruise director.

Franck opened a blue velvet box and laid it in Betty's hands. Callie's jaw dropped, it was his gold medal. There was a magic and mystique that made a gold-colored piece of tin with a ribbon seem like the lost treasure of Atlantis.

"I think in a few years Callie will have one of those." He placed the medal on his desk for Callie to see. "All you need to do, is let her _show off_ who she is." He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "And I'll take care of the rest."

At the 1972 Junior Worlds Callie was the youngest competitor on the American squad. She was eleven. Junior Worlds made its debut the year previously and wasn't mentioned in any of the American newspapers or broadcasted, especially in places like White Bear Lake. Callie placed sixth and nobody knew anything until Franck called her family and then things started to build by word of mouth. Franck managed to get films of the competition and a local tavern held a screening to a full house. The next day Callie was in the local paper. It wasn't until her last season as a junior did Junior Worlds get real publicity. But she could care less. Sure she liked reading the gossip about Ava (the good stuff was in the dressing rooms, of course) but the real problem was that no matter how much she was touted as Ava's rival, she couldn't beat her. She had the triples, her programs were fun, and the audience was in her corner. So what was the problem?

"You can't skate for shit." Said Deidre Kessler.

Mitch took Callie up to Canada for some training at the Royal Glenora Club. Edmonton wasn't Toronto or Minneapolis; there was a lot more isolation in western Canada. Sort of like the Iron Range. He told Callie it would be best if she holed up for a bit and got away from the distractions of home. Steve would be graduating from Hill-Murray School, a private high school he got into on a hockey scholarship, and now the biggest deal was whether or not he was going to get that tryout for the University of Minnesota.

What Callie didn't know was this was actually an audition for who Mitch hoped to be Callie's new coach.

Back in the day Mitch trained with a feisty skater from Watertown, Massachusetts named Deidre Hagopian in Colorado Springs, the US Olympic Committee HQ. She had the bedside manner of a dentist who liked to do root canals without the laughing gas, just for variety. He might've crushed on her, but he was a small-town guy and wouldn't know what to do with her. Besides she had this big boyfriend who played hockey that had more than a few dings in his head. She was good, but never placed higher than second in major competitions. Mitch noticed Deidre had the uncanny ability to dissect a program a million times every which way, reassemble it, and the outcome would be the same: perfect. So she went home and retired at the grand old age of 20 to coach.

Over the years their paths crossed at competitions, training centers, and coaching clinics. Like all Massachusettans Deidre was an extremist, but she had a penchant for consorting with the enemy. At the 1964 Olympics the world saw the birth of a mighty Soviet dynasty in couples skating. The husband and wife team from Leningrad's VSS Lokomotiv sports club, Ludmilla and Oleg Protopopov took the gold medal in pairs. Their teammates, Svetlana Belayeva and Yevgeny Beroyev won the silver medal. Sports are a dirty little secret of the pissing game that is world politics- especially if the biggest competitors happen to be world superpowers. An American athlete's life is financed entirely by corporate sponsorship: GM, IBM, Coca Cola, textiles, credit card companies, and banks to give a few examples. The revenue they generate comes from advertising dollars and product sales. And when an athlete's notoriety becomes a cash cow, they become spokespersons. Why wouldn't Joe Namath and O.J. Simpson peddle insurance and shaving cream?

In Russia the government paid the athlete's way. After religion was abolished the new regime propped up its athletes as the new icons of the worker party's age. And regardless of the state's condition, the success of their athletes kept the people's morale up. It also paid to be a champion; athletes and their families got higher salaries, better cars, and bigger apartments. But to get to the top you had to give your life to the state as early as age three. Russian sports schools rigorously tested young children to see if they're worthy of the state's time and money. In figure skating gifted children were moved from their homes at age ten to live full-time in dorms with their teammates and spent more time with their coaches and trainers than they did with their parents. And it wasn't unusual if skating partners married.

Sveta and Zhenya became a successful pair under the tutelage of Igor Moskvin, who also coached the Protopopovs. But they didn't have Ludmilla and Oleg's eloquence that set them apart from every pair in the world. It was evident that Moskvin set them up to be the weaker pair. You can kill all the Tsarists, but nepotism will never die. The big red sports machine also had an early retirement plan for the over thirty athlete. In order to keep the gears in motion, their finest athletes were indebted to the state and forced into coaching to cultivate the new generation of champions. Lokomotiv pushed Sveta and Zhenya into retirement after returning from Innsbruck. Moskvin was behind it in order for the Protopopovs to take center stage as Lokomotiv's premier pair, keeping Leningrad's schools in competition with Moscow's, particularly CSKA- the Central Red Army Sports Club.

Sveta and Zhenya married before paying their country back by defecting. Once forbidden, skating tours and ice theatres were lucrative and allowed them to retire handsomely and open a skating school in one of their favorite cities, Boston.

Deidre Kessler knew that American skaters- especially in pairs and dance- were on the fast track to nowhere. Judges were dismissing skaters simply because of the flag they skated under, and the rank and scores were being decided long before the competition. On the other hand, the Russians were unique using immersive ballet conditioning, and she knew it could benefit American skaters of all disciplines. But few skaters willingly spent entire training sessions inside a dance studio. So instead of losing all of her students she decided to experiment with one. Sad to say she no volunteers.

Then out of the blue Deidre's old training buddy from Colorado Springs gave her a call…

"Hey Dee it's me Mitch. Listen, I've got this kid you've really got to check out…"

Callie Janaszak was on a hamster wheel that was spinning out of control. She couldn't best Liebert with big smiles and triples anymore- that was so 1973. And her Midwestern kid sister look didn't help either. Ava was flaxen-haired, pouty lipped, and long-legged. But if the German girl was Glinda, then Callie was Elphaba: her skin was dull and unevenly toned from one too many sunburns, her hair was flat, and she was all knees and elbows.

"What d'ya think?" Mitch asked.

"I think," Deidre sighed, "if you asked her to jump off a building she'd say, 'The tall one?' I think she's perfect." She turned to look at him for the first time all day. "Now all I have to do is teach her how to skate- and that's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Callie c'mere!" Mitch called her over. She came to a slow stop at the boards. It was evident that this was no training camp. Mitch put on his best smile and leaned forward on his elbows as though he was going to tell Callie she just lost her family in house fire.

"What if I said you had a chance to make the Olympic team?"

Was that what he had to drag her all the way up to this Canadian hitching post for? She bit her lip. Innsbruck? At 15? "What would I have to do?"

"Come to Boston." Deidre said.

"This is Deidre Kessler. She's an old friend." He squeezed Callie's arms in a fatherly gesture. "I want you to listen to what she has to say." He stepped back letting Deidre take up as much space as Massholes demanded.

"You can't skate for shit." Wince. "But that's a good thing; at least I know what I'm up against." Deidre took a good, hard look at the girl who chafed her arms feeling like a fly pinned under a microscope. "You a freshman?"

"I- in high school?"

"Well I wasn't talkin' about Boston University." Callie made a face and nodded.

"Play for the teams?"

"Girls' basketball team."

"What position?"

Callie took a deep breath feeling a bit relaxed chatting about her other athletic passion. "I'm fast so I usually play small forward."

"They play you a lot?"

"Whenever I'm there." Callie shrugged.

Deidre chortled at the irony and slapped the boards.

"Looks like I have to invest in Celtics season tickets." Callie was bewildered. "Because you've been benched."

"What?" Callie pushed away from the boards violently.

"Princess darling, I don't know what this _idiot's_ been telling you," Deidre jerked her thumb at Mitch, "but muscle tone is a major no-no in this sport!"

"I was the first girl single skater Mitch trained!" Callie exclaimed. "The only way to teach me triples was to train me like a guy!"

"I can see that. And for the last seven years you've milked that philosophy until you ended up runnin' on fumes." Deidre stormed out onto the ice in her sneakers. "Lesson number one in senior-level competition: if girls do not look like Suzanne Farrell in skates, they do not win." Callie went from pissed to confused in a nanosecond. And who the fuck was Suzanne Farrell anyway?

"When was the last time you had your picture taken?"

Picture? What? Who was this crazy bitch? A coach or Sybil reincarnated?

"School pictures aren't taken until before Thanksgiving…" The words dribbled out of Callie since her brain wasn't able to work in time with her mouth.

"That's funny, 'cause I read in _Patinage_ how they were calling you 'America's Little Wet Rat'." Deidre dropped a magazine onto the ice. Picking it up Callie saw a very unflattering photo of herself entering a hotel lobby bedraggled from the rain. The caption was in French, but she was sure it said worse than 'wet rat'.

"I can't read this." She croaked.

"Then it's a good thing that St. Cathy's got an exemplary foreign language course. By the time you graduate you'll be fluent in French _and_ Russian!" Deidre announced.

"Excuse me?" Callie spluttered.

"I didn't tell you?" Deidre pressed a hand to her chest like a B movie actress. "Your new choreographers Svetlana and Yevgeny believe that Russian ballet techniques can _only be taught_ in Russian." Deidre put her hands on her hips and pressed her nose into Callie's face. "I'm giving you a golden ticket, kiddo. Now I wouldn't be scaring the shit outta you if I didn't think you were worth it. But I've got a good feeling, and I trust my instincts."

"My parents will never let me go to Boston by myself."

"You think!" Deidre backed up and stomped her foot. "In the end your backwoods, hick people are like everybody else. They understand if you make the Olympic team next year, your marketability goes up a thousand percent."

So 14-year-old Callie took up stakes and ditched Minnesota. And true to Deidre's word she made the Olympic squad. She hated her school, but made sure her best subject was French. She liked to disturb Bostonian gawkers (particularly Terriers fans) with her fluency in Russian. Her new manager Bob Murray hired an image consultant, teaching Callie how to dress, and do her make up and hair to blend in with the New England urbanites.

While in Innsbruck Steve made Buzzy look after her, but Callie was too busy obsessing over her programs' replays, amazed at how good her landing position looked, leg extension and point. Her limbs were still scrawny though, but despite being in heavy skating boots she pointed her toes perfectly. That horse's ass Dick Button couldn't stop gushing about it.

But the ′77 skating season was shaping up to be interesting. Ava had the same competitive short program music as Callie, _Swan Lake's _Black Swan suite. And when she was done with her panic attack in her hotel room she went to her first practice for Trophée Lalique. Every competitor's short program music was on rotation; Callie worked on her jump combinations inwardly dreading her music. Ava skimmed through the other girls with her spirals. The judges were in the stands; Callie wondered what the final call would be.

Never a compulsory skater, it was her free skating that had had to do the talking. It was a piece of luck that Callie drew for the final group performing long after Ava. Liebert portrayed Odile true to form in a textbook perfect performance. Callie counted her blessings, and one of them was having an image consultant constantly drilling into her, 'You are a burgeoning trendsetter.' Silk, chiffon, sequins, crystals and beads turned Callie on. Sometimes the costume can make the skater. Ava looked every inch the prima ballerina in her feathered headpiece and black tutu, but Callie challenged her in black spandex and a wraparound chiffon skirt. Her plunging v-neckline was thinly obscured by dramatic silver sequin wing patterns with black crystals and white pearls dangling from her waist and wrists. Callie's ponytail was pulled way upon her head like a genie, her lips were frosted with mauve, and her eye shadow were shimmering white wingtips over peacock blue. Her interpretation of Odile was frankly scandalous, instead of Odile tricking the hapless Prince Siegfried into believing she was Odette, he went along with her seduction. What made things worse for the East German was that Callie nailed element after element, including her second triple- the Salchow- which replaced the required double Axel.

She returned to Boston with the championship, and five months later in Tokyo she took the world title right from under Ava's nose. A 16-year-old from Buttfuck, Minnesota won a gold medal that was clearly meant for someone else. The screams of exultation on the U of M campus should have brought the riot police, but everybody was too busy celebrating American figure skating's new darling. Callie was an instant celebrity. Boston Terriers fans vaguely knew her as Janaszak's little sister, now she was a household name. Before she went on the Tom Collins tour Callie performed after a North Stars exhibition game at their home rink in Bloomington, the Met Center. In a white wraparound dress trimmed in silver she skated to Debussy's _Claire de Lune_.

Taking her bows to a thunderous standing O the North Stars' GM Lou Nanne walked onto the ice with photographers in tow. He made a short speech telling Callie she was Minnesota's pride, thanking her for her hard work, and presented her with a gift: a gold and diamond North Stars logo pendant. Her mom was queen for a day at the reception that followed, and her father and Steve loved their North Stars season tickets, not to mention the million and one things the team autographed. But the only real pleasure Callie got out of any of it were the men. Gone was the seven minutes of heaven in some moth ball reeking closet with a chump from her class. The real men looked her way now; college athletes, pros, the younger coaches. She sent Joey Mullen Polaroids of her masturbating with a fat peppermint stick in her red velvet and white fur trimmed sexy Mrs. Claus skating costume. She even had a threesome with a pair of BC Eagles.

And now she wanted Jimmy Craig. Why? Because he was a bigger bitch than she was.

**TBC**


End file.
